


don't take the money

by Kalgalen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Supervillain!Martin, Tattoos, description of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21717067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: or: the inherent homoeroticism of patching up your nemesis' wounds, ft Detective J. Sims.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 62
Kudos: 558





	don't take the money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saphizzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphizzle/gifts).



> this is set in a wildly obscure au i came up with with ai (@eyemoji) in which martin is a supervillain and jon is the cop trying to catch him?? And then saph requested a fic about it with my tattooed marto thrown in and this happened
> 
> I've been told it's a pleasant read even without context so pls enjoy ✨
> 
> (title from the song of the same name by the bleachers:  
>  _You steal the air out of my lungs, you make me feel it  
>  I pray for everything we lost, buy back the secrets  
> Your hand forever's all I want  
> Don't take the money  
> Don't take the money_)

Jon's free time these past few months have been, infuriatingly, spent thinking about one Martin K. Blackwood. If that's even his real name.

His mind has lingered on him a lot during his work hours as well, but to be fair, Weaver had been his main case way before Martin had shown his true colours, and - well. Jon has always had a tendency to bring work home. And work is all it is, even when he spends hours remembering the kind, soft-spoken man he'd first met years ago. He's only trying to find the cracks in Martin's mask, to remember the signs he should have noticed back then. Instead, his mind keeps reminding him of Martin's concern for him when he used to stay at work way past the end of his shift - of the care he'd put into making Jon a cup of tea then. It seems hard to believe this concern faked; a part of Jon still clings to the idea that there was some truth to it, despite the overwhelming evidence against.

Martin is Weaver - the Spider haunting London's streets; acting the way people want him to is just a mean to an end, a tool of manipulation - the thread for his Web, in which Jon had fallen unsuspecting and eager.

(God, he had almost asked Martin on a date, before everything had gone down. Would that have been a death sentence?)

Jon glares at the book in his hand; it's a crime novel set in late 19th century England, and he'd figured that if it didn't distract him with an interesting scenario, at least he could have a laugh about the historical inaccuracies. And it might have succeeded - if his mind hadn't drifted toward Martin as soon as he'd settled on the couch.

Where is he? What is he planning? What had he meant, when he'd taken Jon's hand and whispered "I'll wait" before vanishing into the streets, that fateful evening he'd revealed his true identity? Jon, once again, examines this hand closely - for clues, perhaps, thought it has been months. Still, he can remember the texture and warmth of Martin's skin against his clear as day, and he flexes his fingers as if he could catch the ghost of that touch - rewrite the past, refuse to let Martin go, ask for explanations.

Then there's a knock on his door.

He jumps guiltily, wrenching his gaze away from his hand, then glares at the clock. Midnight is fast approaching; Elias usually goes through great lengths to keep him away from work when he isn’t supposed to be there, so it can’t possibly be a professional visit. Basira or Sasha or even Tim would have at least texted before driving to his place. He quickly checks his phone - no missed calls, no new messages.

The knock comes again, barely a rasp this time. Whoever it is, they’re either trying to be quiet, or can’t physically be louder. Jon gets up, willing his movements to be as silent as possible though he’s not harboring any illusions about how quiet he can be. He pads toward the front door, looking around for some kind of weapon - his service gun is locked for the night, and he doesn’t have the time to fetch it. His eyes glide over an umbrella, on to the keys set near the door, to the very heavy, very ugly statuette he inherited from his grandmother - back at the umbrella. It isn't as if he's got an infinite arsenal to his disposal, so he grabs it, and unlocks the door.

Martin looks up at him from where he's sitting on the ground, and Jon almost slams the door shut again.

He doesn't. Instead, he says:

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hey, Jon," Martin breathes, barely a whisper. "Missed me?"

"Give it a few more months and get back to me."

Martin winces at his answer, gives a smile halfway through cocky grin and grimace of pain. The impulse to close the door is still blaring at the back of Jon's mind, but instead of obeying it he takes the time to look at Martin - really _look_ at him. There's fear in his eyes, and apprehension, and _relief_. He's unnaturally pale in the neon lights of the corridor; there's a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and blood at the corner of his lips.

"What happened to you?" Jon asks despite his best judgement. He realises, too late, that his tone has grown soft and concerned.

Martin must have noticed it too, because his smile widens fractionally. Then he looks away.

"It's not important," he says, and Jon clicks his tongue impatiently.

"I already got half a mind to leave you right there," he warns. "I am certainly not letting you in if you don't tell me what I'm exposing myself to."

Martin peers at him from behind his lashes in a parody of innocence. "To be honest, I'm glad you're considering letting me in at all," he says - as if he couldn't _make_ Jon do whatever he wants him to do if he decided to. He doesn't answer the question, though, simply looks up at Jon with a patient expression, and waits.

This is bringing back memories of easier days - Martin looking at him over the rim of a cup of tea even as their coworkers chatted around them, Jon catching him, the quiet look-away-look-back-and-smile danced that would inevitably follow and make Jon's day, if only for a moment, a little bit less bleak. The simplicity of it - the yearning, unwise yet strong, for things to go back to what they were - thaws Jon's resolve a bit more. He drops his improvised weapon back in its spot, and sighs.

"Alright. Be that way."

Martin looks genuinely worried, for a moment, until Jon extends a hand in his direction. There's the barest hint of hesitation on his face before he reaches out and grabs it. His face goes deathly pale as Jon pulls him on his feet, and it looks for a second as if he's about to go right back down and - look, the man is hurt, and Jon is right there, it is only natural that he would let his arms wrap around Martin in an effort to keep him upright.

Martin _whines_. From this close, Jon can smell the blood in the air; he isn't impressed when Martin chuckles into his collar and murmurs:

"My, Mr Sims. Invite me out for coffee first."

"I don't drink coffee," Jon answers mechanically. "Let's get you inside."

He drops Martin on the couch with as much care as he can manage without letting the full depth of his concern shine through, then strides back to the door to lock it tightly. When he turns around, Martin has picked up the book he's abandoned earlier and is leafing through it with the hand not covering a dark red spot on his sweater.

"You really read this? For fun?" Martin sounds genuinely curious. Jon snatches the book out of his hand.

"Big words from someone who reads Keats," Jon grumble. "Or was that part of the role?"

Martin looks away. "It was never a role. Just - an edited version of myself. It was all real, to some degree."

The silence that hangs in the air between them is loud and heavy enough that it could be an actual elephant. Jon opens his mouth to say _to which degree was your interest in me real,_ but what he says instead is:

"I'll go get the first-aid kit."

He's sure he can feel Martin's eyes on him as he leaves - he doesn't look back to check. The bathroom is a welcomed haven of solitude, and he takes a moment to splash some cold water on his face. He grabs the first-aid kit - which has seen a lot of use these past few months - and, before going back to the living room, gives his reflection in the mirror a stern look. _You can't trust him._

It almost looks like Martin's fallen asleep when Jon comes back. His head has dropped low on his chest, and he does not stir until Jon sets the kit down on the coffee table. There's a split second, as he blinks owlishly up at Jon, where the shadows cast on his face seem to pool and pearl at the corner of his eyes in a six-dots pattern, three on each side - and Jon quickly looks away, discomfort rising like bile in his throat. When he looks back the beady, shadowy eyes are gone.

"You're going to have to take your top off," he says matter-of-factly, hoping his tone doesn't convey how much he would have wanted the circumstances to be different. There's no doubt Martin can see right through him anyway, but he doesn't comment. His expression betrays the slightest bit of hesitation as he grabs the hem of his sweater, and then he pulls it off, movements made jerky with pain.

His shirt is discarded next, and whatever embarrassing thing Jon might have said then is completely blown away, along with every coherent thought in his mind.

It's not that Jon has ever tried to picture Martin with his clothes off - because that would be _weird_ , right, and terribly unprofessional - but nothing could have prepared him to the sight of colors and bold lines blooming all over Martin’s arms, his chest, the left side of his neck. There are so many tattoos on what Jon can see of him it’s doubtful he could ever even _look_ naked.

"Like what you see?" Martin asks, and it's only the slight tremor in his voice that keeps Jon from snapping at him in self-defense.

He is… nervous. Actually nervous. _So this isn't entirely an act either._ Jon steps closer, slowly, as if moving too quick would spook Martin. Judging by the look on his face, it still might just; his arms are crossed in front of his chest, and there's a self-conscious red glow on his cheeks.

"I don't hate it," Jon answers without thinking, and curses himself silently. _So much for not saying something embarrassing._

Martin chuckles, his smirk quickly turning into a grimace as one of his arms drops from his chest to wrap protectively around his middle. _Right_ . Jon grabs the first aid kit again, grateful for the excuse to tear his eyes from the patterns on Martin's skin. He makes his way to the couch, very carefully ignoring the way Martin's eyes track his movements - sharp, curious, inquisitive. Jon sits next to Martin; the proximity makes him feel _some sort of way_ , but he ignores that, too - and opens the case. He can't help but glance at the tattoos from the corner of his eyes as he riffles through the box for bandages and disinfectant; he can see a lot of flowers, each of a different species, drawn in a different style, painted a different color. The result should be tacky, but it's mesmerizing instead. He catches new details every time he looks at them; there's an animal skull here, bluebells caught between its teeth; there's fog oozing off a rose's petals on Martin's chest, a spider weaving its web between tulip stalks on his ribs. The patterns are so tightly knit Jon barely catches the twin surgical scars Martin had been covering up, and he quickly looks away from those; Martin might be his nemesis, for all intents and purposes, but this is not something Jon wants him to be uncomfortable about.

Jon puts the kit back on the table, and pours some alcohol on a sterile wipe.

"Come here," he grumbles roughly, not daring to look at Martin's face as he scoots closer. Martin obeys wordlessly, and Jon gets a better look at the ragged line torn into Martin's abdomen.

"What did this?" He starts dabbing at the wound, wondering if he shouldn't have gotten a wet cloth to get rid of the dried blood first. Martin hisses at the contact, and Jon closes a hand over his thigh. "Don't move."

Martin stops wriggling, and Jon emits a murmur of approval before focusing on his task again.

It looks like the kind of injury that could have been inflicted by a bread knife; Jon knows intimately how those feel, as the long scar on his wrist has been the product of such weapon (long story.) The wound neatly bisects the representation of a worm-eaten apple, and Jon does his best to avoid picturing bugs crawling out of the split skin and onto his fingers - with mixed success.

"Don't worry," Martin breathes. "I think I took all the worms out."

Jon clenches his teeth and throws him a sharp glance. "Don't joke about that. I know what kind of stuff your people do."

Martin chuckles, and Jon scowls a bit more. 

Once the wound is clean, it becomes obvious it could use some stitches - but Martin has come to him instead of going to a hospital or seeking out someone who actually has any medical knowledge, so he'll have to do with strips. Jon works quickly and silently, keeping out of his mind the feeling of intimacy that comes from being able to touch Martin - to feel the heat coming from his skin, the life thrumming beneath. His red-stained, scarred fingers look plain and disappointing next to the patchwork of intricate designs tattooed on Martin's skin; for an instant he itches to trace them all.

Martin doesn't speak either, too focused on keeping his breathing slow and steady through the ordeal. He's looking a bit grey, now, eyes unfocused and lips pressed tight as Jon tapes the edge of the wound together. A few more minutes, and Jon manages to dress it in clean gauze with a minimum of fuss.

"There," he says as he backs away to glance critically at his handiwork. "That should do the trick."

Martin sags, breathing heavily for a moment; his arms close around his chest defensively, and his fingers trace over the rough line of the wound through the bandage. Finally, he looks up at Jon, and offers a pale smile.

"Looks - good to me." A pause, as surprise then certainty flash over his face. Then: "Thank you."

He puts intention behind the word, as if to make sure Jon knows he means it. Jon looks away, concerned that if he keeps looking at Martin he won't be able to do his duty - to do what is _right_.

"Couldn't let you die," he says gruffly. "You have some crimes to answer for."

He hears a quiet laugh from Martin - soft, a bit fond - and digs his fingers into his forearm to keep himself from reaching out. Martin cautiously slips his bloodstained shirt back on, then leans back down into the couch.

"Oh, Jon," he sighs. "Such righteousness, at every hour of the day. Doesn't it get exhausting?"

Jon glances at him. Martin has closed his eyes, leaving him the opportunity to examine him to his leisure; the man is still pale and sweaty, eyebrows drawn up as he simply breathes. The poppy inked on his throat flutters in time with his heartbeat.

Jon's own heart stutters in his chest, and he looks away.

"Somebody has to keep an eye open," he answers lamely.

Martin hums - whether it's in acquiescence or mockery, Jon can't tell.

The silence stretches; it feels dangerously comfortable, like a quilted blanket that might choke him if he lets himself get used to it. Jon distracts himself by carefully replacing everything in the first aid kit. He gets up to throw the used wipes in the garbage bin and mechanically washes his hands, then fills the kettle and turns it on. This - making tea to cope with the agitation - isn't customary for him. This is the kind of reaction the Martin he knew back then would have had. Jon leans back against the kitchen counter while he waits for the water to come to a boil and focuses on himself, on the feeling of being connected with his own body; Martin is weakened, but Jon wouldn't put it past Weaver to pull his strings even then.

But - his will is his own, as far as he can tell. There isn't any spider puppetting him into this routine, no desire other than his own, and he has to accept that perhaps the reason he's making tea is simply - that he thinks Martin would _like_ it.

Frowning, confused, Jon fishes out two teabags out of a tin box and drop them into the mugs he recovers from the cupboard. He's never made tea for Martin - that was always Martin's job - but he finds he remembers perfectly how the other man takes his. One spoonful of sugar, a dash of milk; he frowns some more, considering the cup for a moment before deciding that the late hour warrants sharing tea with someone he'd sworn to put behind bars. He takes both mugs, and goes back to the living room.

Martin has actually fallen asleep this time, and he jumps when Jon puts the cups down on the wooden top of the coffee table. He blinks, looking disoriented, and he looks surprised when his eyes fall on the beverage set in front of him.

"Tea?" he mumbles; he's already reaching for it, fingers hovering above the warm ceramic.

Jon settles back down on the couch, taking care this time to keep a respectable distance between Martin and him. He wraps his hands around his own cup and shrugs with a nonchalance that isn't even a little bit close from genuine.

"Figured we deserved it. It's been - a lot of emotions, in a short period of time."

Martin smiles at him - one of these real smiles that used to warm Jon up like a ray of sunshine - and takes the cup. He sips at it for a bit, then hums.

"You remembered," he says. Jon looks deep into his tea, and doesn't answer.

"I figured we could take some time to talk, as well," he says after a bit. "Why did you come here, Martin? I'm sure you know people who're better than me at patching up bloody wounds."

"I -" Martin doesn't look too sure of himself. He reminds him sharply of the Martin Jon used to know, the secretary who didn't look like much and spoke quietly and helped from the sidelines without asking for anything in return. He looks just as soft and subdued as back then, except now there an edge of brokeness to it.

Martin sighs, and his head bows. "Some people in our community aren't satisfied with how I choose to deal with some of my issues," he says in the end. "The - the Lukases, in particular. They've never been happy with me keeping in touch with the world, even though I barely belong to them anymore. They - they threatened to take matters into their own hands."

It makes some kind of sense, when Jon thinks about it. The Lukases are an old family, rich and powerful but reclusive and holding a deep dislike for anyone who doesn't belong to their organisation. He'd known Martin was linked to them in some way; he hadn't expected it to be that much that they'd feel justified to boss him around.

"What do you mean?" Jon asks, because it still doesn't quite explain how this brought Martin on his doorstep in the middle of the night, beaten and bloodied.

Martin isn't looking at him. "I couldn't let them, right. They sent Michael - you remember him," and of course Jon does; the scar on his wrist stings disagreeably at the memory of a blade spearing through his flesh and into his desk. Martin doesn't miss the way his hand flies to the old wound, and - it takes a moment for Jon to register it - his eyes are suspiciously shiny, now. "They told him to -" his voice trembles, and again, that's a Martin Jon knows and never thought he'd see again, "they told him to go after the person I care about the most, and I got in the way, and -" he presses a hand against his bandaged side in a self-explanatory gesture. He sniffles, and rubs his other hand against his face; his eyes are rimmed with red, and he looks exhausted. "I think I scared him off for now. But he will come back."

Jon's chest goes uncomfortably tight as the words "the person I care about the most" leave Martin's mouth. Disappointment, betrayal and acceptance succeed each other quickly at the forefront of his mind, and he dismisses them all. He does _not_ feel jealous of whoever caught Martin's attention - or at least, not enough to neglect his duties as a member of the police force.

"Are they alright?" he asks, and prays that Martin won't give him any details as to who they are, because he _does not_ care.

Martin looks at him with wet eyes and a frown. "Who?"

"Your - the person Michael was sent after. I can call the precinct, Sasha is on shift tonight, she can go check on them -"

"Jon," Martin cuts him off, and there's a small, tired smile pulling at the side of his mouth. "You can't be that oblivious."

Jon bristles and glares at Martin. The look of utter fondness the other is giving him somewhat abates his irritation, though; he immediately looks away again and stares into his cup of tea, willing his cheek to stop burning. "If you have something to say, say it," he snaps. It is far too late in the night to be playing mind games.

Martin doesn't answer for a moment, and Jon almost believes he's dropped the subject before he sighs:

"It's you."

The confession is quiet, a shy admission murmured to the content of his cup only. It's also a thunderclap that shakes Jon to his core, makes him feel like his consciousness has suddenly been pulled two centimeters left of his physical shape. He feels warm - cold - confused, afraid, _terrified_ , hopeful; his fingers are tight and white around his mug.

"What?" he rasps, because he must have misheard.

"It's you, Jon. Always has been." _Always will be_ hangs in the air like a sword of Damocles they will cut themselves on if spoken aloud. Jon barely dares to breathe for fear of bringing it down on them.

The silence that stretches is one of the most uncomfortable Jon has ever had the dubious privilege to be a part of. On the other end of the couch, Martin has closed in on himself, folded in a self-effacing shape that's not without reminding Jon of who he keeps thinking of as _the other Martin_ , but that he's starting to understand _is_ Martin too - just another dimension of him.

 _He could be pretending,_ says the voice of reason in his mind. _He could be lying to get closer to you._

 _Would it really be that bad?_ answers another voice, more tentative, one he doesn't tend to pay attention to, but which sounds particularly compelling this night. _Would it be that bad, to see if everything I've imagined and hoped for become true for a bit?_

_Would it be worth it?_

Jon forces his hands to relax around his cup and slowly sets it down. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Martin flinch when the bottom of the mug hits the table, and - he can't possibly be faking that, certainly.

"Martin," Jon starts - just to break the quiet, just to do something. The rest of the sentence doesn't come as easily; he's not quite sure of what he wants to say - of what is _safe_ to say. "I -" he tries, and stalls again. He grunts in frustration, and runs a hand down his face. Martin isn't helping - silent, barely there, so far away it almost looks like he doesn't care about the answer. "Could you look at me?"

He tries to keep his tone neutral, but doesn't quite manage to keep the frustration out of it if the hunted animal look Martin gives him is to be believed.

"Look, I'm sorry -" he starts, just as Martin says, "It's alright if you don't feel the same way -" and they both stop, exchanging sheepish looks and timid smiles. The tension lessens just a bit, and Jon gestures: "Go ahead. Please."

Martin nods, breathing out. "Okay. I, uh- first of all, I didn't come here for - that. I just - honestly, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I -" he hesitates, casts a glance sideways in Jon's direction. "I'm glad you know, though."

"So am I," Jon blurts out, because he is, glad and a little bit dazed. Martin looks at him, interrogation clear in his face, and Jon amends: "I am glad it wasn't - an act you were putting on, or something."

"It really wasn't," Martin says quickly. "It really _isn't_." A beat. "I really love you, you know."

There it is again - the intent behind the words, the subtext of "if there's one thing you must believe, this is it". It takes all of Jon's strength not to yield to the temptation of reciprocating immediately; he picks his mug of lukewarm tea back up just to have something to fiddle with.

"I thought you might," he says finally. " _Hoped_ you might," he admits, because he owes Martin as much honesty as he's given him.

"Oh," Martin says.

"Mh," Jon agrees.

The silence is back, settling between them like an affectionate dog. They sip at their tea, each deep into thoughts.

"And," Martin says hesitantly, "how about - how do _you_ feel?"

"I don't know." The glint of hope in Martin's eyes goes out, and Jon corrects quickly: "I liked the Martin I met back then."

Martin snorts. "You don't need to lie, Jon. I've heard the recordings."

Jon winces. "I was a dick. I'm sorry. It's just, I'd just been promoted, and you kept hovering around as if you didn't think I could do my job -"

"I was trying to help!" Martin interjects, but he's laughing now.

"I know!" Jon cries out, trying and failing to look offended. "I know, I'm sorry," he says again, softer. Then: "Thank you."

He's not sure he's ever really thanked Martin before. There might have been a couple of distracted thanks in response to Martin bringing him files or the occasional cup of tea, muttered into the air so he didn't have to look up from his work, but this is the first time he's giving him his full attention as he says it.

Martin's whole face lights up. Jon stops breathing, and for a moment everything that isn't Martin fades around him - and he realizes that despite everything that's gone down since that night Martin had shown his true colors there's no mistaking the feelings threatening to choke him.

"It's not going to be easy," he blurts out without thinking, because if he stops to think he's going to come to his senses and realise what a terrible idea it is. Martin makes a questioning noise, and Jon powers through the doubt before he can think better of it. "It's not going to be easy, or - or simple, and - we don't even really know each other, Martin -"

"What are you saying?" Martin asks softly, as if worried speaking to loud will break the charm. He might be right; Jon's doubts are barely quieter than his desire to reach out and take Martin's hand, but he doesn't yield to either. 

"I don't know. I'm not - sure," Jon stammers. His fingers flex around his cup, restless once again, and he stares unseeingly right in front of him as he explains: "I - I think - I thought we could have had something, right before you - left. I was going to - I had some sort of feelings for you," and his cheeks are definitely red now as the embarrassment threatens to overcome him. He's never been good at discussing his feelings; it's not made easier by how much hangs on his words. "You're a criminal, Martin. You hurt people. I can't let that slip just because you - because I -"

"I love you," Martin says, soft and genuine, and Jon freezes. "I know I've done bad things, and I can't promise I'll ever be able to make up for it, but - I'll do my best. For you."

"You can't do it _only_ for me. That's not how it works." Jon drags a hand down his face. The adrenaline dissipating had left him exhausted and slow, and forming coherent thoughts - especially on such a delicate subject - is proving exceptionally hard. "Being good is a choice you have to make - for yourself."

Martin considers this, lips pressed against the rim of his cup and brows furrowed in consideration. Then:

"I've played being good for years. I don't think - I mean, doing it for real can't be that hard. It might -" he hesitates and lowers his voice, as if the confession might cause Michael to burst through the door: "It might even be nice, you know."

Jon lets out a breath he hasn't realised he's been holding. "Alright. Good. Good."

Silence stretches again, tentative, then a bit awkward. Finally, Martin asks:

"What now?"

The choice would have been unthinkable just an hour before, but now it is the obvious one; Jon stands up and gather their empty cups, and says:

"Now, I'm getting you a clean shirt and a blanket. You can sleep here tonight, we'll discuss all of - _this_ tomorrow."

Martin gives him a tentative half smile. "Not offering me your bed?"

Jon tries to stay cautiously neutral even as he feels an answering grin tugging at his lips. "We're not quite there yet."

"Understandable." Martin's answer is barely more than a murmur, and he sinks back into the couch with a sigh. Jon takes the opportunity to slip away.

When he comes back, Martin is asleep for good. It feels easy - it feels _natural_ to wrap the blanket around him and to leave him there. 

Jon's finding it very hard to regret his decision. 


End file.
